Last Night In Paradise
by catcorsair
Summary: She stayed with him for two weeks, in his Paradise underground. Tomorrow, she returns to the world of the living. How will Christine spend her last night in Hell? Leroux Canon / Canon Compliant. Two-shot. IN PROGRESS.


_**Last Night in Paradise**_

_**A/N: **Very Explicit; folks who are triggered by consent issues, please be warned regarding a moment that feels like something worse than it is. Feel free to PM me if you need to know beforehand._

_Comments and reviews are greatly appreciated! :)_

* * *

They walked the black path from the Rue Scribe gate in frosted silence.

"Erik?" she breathed. So far he had said nothing to her and Christine found it unlike him; in his lantern's half-light he pressed soundlessly on, as she hurried to keep up with his long strides, and tripped over her cloak as it fell about her ankles in the dark.

"Later, Christine," he muttered, without a backwards glance.

When they were again in the living-room beyond the lake, she excused herself knowing she need not bother––Erik was at the piano before she had off her cloak, and once he began to play nothing else could move him. Satan himself could have risen from Hell beneath him (surely he was close enough below) and gathered his devils about to watch the performance, and still Erik would have made no note of his audience. How could he be expected to see Christine? She often wondered why he held her here these two weeks at all, ignoring her as he did.

She considered starting a pot of tea but thought better of it. After all, Erik would never drink it, and though she was thirsty, she knew it would only go to waste. He had a cabinet full of the finest and most exotic teas she had ever seen––English black and Asian green, and blends of herbs and flowers that smelled like the finest perfumes, with crepe-sugar petals that crumbled to lambent dusts between her fingertips. And though he reminded her often enough that everything in his home was free for her use, still she could not bear to waste one remarkable leaf. How many times now had she placed a cup, unnoticed upon the frame of that piano, and come back hours later to take the cold thing away untouched? For all she could tell it was not as if the man ate or drank anything at all––

If he were a man at all. It had become so difficult to tell, really, in his orpheum six stories beneath the Opera…

Instead she went to her bedroom and shut the door, to remove her hat and wash the dust of the underground passage from her face, and nurse the sting of knowing Raoul had seen her like that, from Erik's carriage, _unchaperoned, at night_––

And to listen.

She had known he was upset about what happened in the Bois. What had Raoul been doing there? As soon as they came upon him Erik turned to ice; his manner, just previously so cordial, evaporated into frigid civility. Christine had shivered beneath his black stare the entire way back to the Rue Scribe gate.

"How fine," he had said suddenly, disrupting the perfect stillness of the carriage such that Christine gave a strangled gasp and pressed her fingers to her lips, "that we should run across that_ dear fellow_ the Vicomte tonight! I admit it was a surprise, my dear––I do so like to prepare for guests, you know––and yet you were so very glad to see him!"

Despite her silence, Christine's excitable heart had begun to pound feverishly in her chest, to reach an unbearable threshold; now it burst from her lungs in a breathless, trembling exhale. She brought a gloved palm to her lips to sputter between her fingers, "_oh, Erik_––do not be cruel––I'm sorry––I was only surprised to see––"

His frown deepened at her nervous gesture. "Dear Mademoiselle, why should you apologize to me? Forgive me for thinking I could expect the attentions of my companion! When she is interested only in acquiring one better!"

Frustrated tears stung at the corners of Christine's eyes, her vision distorted; in shame she blinked them away, only to taste the salt upon her lip.

Erik ignored her, growling, "he may have a title, my dear, and a nose––"

"_Please, Erik_," Christine interrupted in a whine, and wrung her wrists upon her lap.

He pressed on. "Ah, but I am worth 240, 000 francs a year, Christine! A sum that could put all the measly trappings of your Vicomtesse's closet to shame!"

"Erik, please…that isn't fair––"

"Is it not, Christine?" he returned bitterly, "you are a foolish girl; you know nothing of _fair_." With a hurried movement he raised his cane to rap a short rhythm upon the wall behind him; the carriage shuddered to a halt as Christine rocked forward and clutched the seat beneath her. Before the chauffeur could hope to get to the door, Erik had it open, flinging the thing wide with a thrust of his cane.

"Stop crying," he hissed, as the door rocked dangerously upon its hinges. "_Get out of the carriage._"

Any who might have heard him now, as he sat before the grand piano in the little living-room beyond the lake, could never have guessed he had behaved such. He did not play like it. His music surged in waves of canorous abandon, as every emotion known to God and the Devil burst forth under his command, to rise to excruciating tension only to fall again in exhausted bliss––as Erik pounded the keys to ecstasies with remarkable composure.

That he should be so unaffected by his own creation bothered Christine most of all.

What Erik played now was not the same terrible, soul-eating music that rang in discordant rages the night Christine had removed his mask––that music crackled like a whip, in bruising refrains like a thousand tortures; every beat of its percussive rhythm a blow to her unguarded flesh, each wailing lamentation as sharp as a knife upon her throat until she cried out from the pain of it, cowering, like a child beneath her blankets––still she bore the scars of its assault_––_

Even Erik must have seen its marks upon her. He had not played like it since.

No––what he played now was not that music, but still it devoured. This music was more dangerous than any physical violence; this music was insidious, it was inside her––and Christine felt the implication of its every note, without necessity of lyrics––

With what mad passion the man played, and what divine torture to hear! Just beyond her bedroom door he pounded the ivory notes with crazed fingers, flying fingers––those long, elegant fingers! The music rose to a thunderous crescendo, until the walls of the little bedroom shuddered and the ground beneath Christine's feet vibrated with its rhythm––tremulous frisson burst from her fingers, her toes; it climbed the length of her spine to explode in senseless passions from her scalp––and then it was slow, impossibly slow, impossibly delicate––mournful, almost––each note teasing and whispering beneath her skin to grasp at the beating muscle of her heart, her stomach, lower, lower, until––_oh, Devil take her_––she could scarce breathe––

She did not know herself when she heard it!

It was best to keep to her room when he played. Safest.

The first time it had surprised her; she'd been passing through the Louis-Philippe room––perhaps the third, fourth day of her captivity––and listening absently as he played. Erik played often, every day in truth; on the piano, usually, or the violin, and sometimes even that strange three-stringed instrument that he only brought out in the evenings, as Christine sat across him in the little rocking-chair before the hearth. He had said the odd little thing came from Russia, though Christine thought it something like her grandfather's _talharpa_ with a long neck––perhaps he had one of those too––

That first time it was simply the piano.

For all she'd already believed him a musical genius, Christine had never truly heard Erik play until that moment––she realized that so long as she had known him, he must have been holding back. Because something about the music just then was different––it felt different––_did he know? _

No, he was far too immured in it to have known. And yet it shamed her instantly, where the music registered in the pit of her, like a flood, arresting and consuming her––Christine tried to ignore it, to clench her thighs against it and grasp white-fingered at the back of the reading-chair to will it away; but it was inescapable––presently she cried out, shuddering, and collapsed to the floor in mortified shock.

She wouldn't look up, even as the music clanged to a ringing halt and Erik appeared, the Devil himself kneeling before her lowered gaze.

"Christine?" he breathed, urgent. He frowned at the shining ruddiness of her cheeks and nose, at the labored breaths that hissed from between her parted lips. He wasn't helping! Didn't he know the music still thrashed and vibrated from every part of him, regardless of whether it made any sound?

He put a careful hand out to direct her chin towards him and forced her eye. "Christine, are you quite well?"

"Yes," she lied. Her disgrace spilled from her in a sticky mess between her thighs.

He raised a narrow eyebrow behind the mask, or at least the muscles worked as if to do such, had he a proper brow to raise at all. But Christine could see it all the same––strange, how a man who hid his face behind a mask could still be so expressive––

"You are on the floor, Christine," he said dryly.

"Oh. Yes––I think I've turned my ankle, that's all," she lied. "Please, it's nothing." She forced a laugh; it rang out tinny and over-loud, and she quieted.

"I see." He was looking at her foot in the graceless tangle of her skirts––oh––she burned with sudden shame––he was staring at the whole of her leg in only its white stocking, exposed above the knee and bent in a weird angle upon the floor.

With a fitful gesture Christine tossed her skirts about to cover herself. Heat rose to her ears; he was looking at her face again. Why must he always stare so? It was very nearly obscene!

"Please, Erik, it is not injured––I am fine, truly––I did not mean to interrupt you––"

He made a gentle humming sound between closed lips; Christine exhaled heavily through her nose.

"May I?" he asked, and opened a meaningful palm in the direction of her foot.

"Really, I'm sure it's fine, Erik. It's nothing. _Look_," she wiggled her toes such that Erik could see their movement beneath the tent of her skirts, and added, much too shrilly, "_it's fine!_"

"Still," he said quietly, "it is best to know for sure, is it not?"

He slid his fingers beneath her skirt––she choked on a gasp as his cold flesh met hers––and took up her foot in a hand. Christine shifted upon the floor to assist him, leaning back with both palms as he held the thing in the crux of his lap. He poked carefully at her joint and rotated her ankle, and muttered little comments about a lack of swelling––_ah, not broken_––no bruising––_promising_––as Christine held her skirts in two white fists upon her shins.

Then he slipped her shoe from her curling toes and dragged a slow finger along the sensitive arch, as Christine gasped and drew the foot back beneath her skirt.

Erik gave her a queer look. "It seems to be in order, but you must be more careful, Christine. Do you want to fall off the stage?" Then, without preamble, he stood, bent low, and gathered her surprised form in his arms. He deposited her on the couch and went back to the damned piano, and she had to listen all over again.

At least this time she was beneath a blanket.

For two days Christine was careful to limp about from room to room and give little sighs every time she rose from standing, as Erik regarded her movements with interest, usually from the piano bench or with his violin balanced in the hollow of his shoulder. She couldn't recall if it was her left or right foot she'd given him, and switched between the two in the hopes that he'd not notice––it wasn't much likely, considering the attention he gave that piano––

And he had never played that particular song again.

But Erik had others; he had an endless, eternal catalog of music, with each song more powerful, more sensual, more all-consuming than the last. With the piano, or the violin, the cello or his own unbelievable instrument––God, that miraculous throat! It was her downfall––when he sang it took her every time, no matter how fiercely she resisted. She could not escape that voice.

When he played Christine could hardly just stand there and listen. Because if she were discovered––no, no––it was too wicked!

Tonight she did not risk it; she'd felt it coming the instant she'd turned back from the window and met Erik's black stare in the carriage on the Bois; like the north wind that rolled in on the Seine with madness in its wake, there was a storm in him, and none would pass the night uncorrupted. He'd not even bothered to remove his coat before he sat down to play––only the Devil knew what sins that box could commit tonight! Yes, it was best to hide and wait.

And now, as Erik's house rang and echoed in the throes of sublime music, Christine writhed against the closed door of her bedroom and bit her tongue to bleeding, with her skirts bundled in her fist and her hot fingers working between her thighs.

It was utter madness, shameful; a crime against––well, everything––and yet, the music caressed her, enchanted her, tempted her to taste its fruits. She could not hope to resist it––Heaven help her, she must resist it! What would Erik say if he knew?

Oh, he could never, ever know!

The crescendo was building, pounding and tearing in an obscene frenzy, out there in the Louis-Philippe room and inside of her––_yes, inside her_––_what would it be like to take those long fingers inside her––_

No! Never that, God, not that––just the music, only the music––

Now she leaned upon the bedroom door as she stroked the red mouth of her cunt to his maddening score; she was his silent orchestra, hidden and playing from the pit––yes––yes––and how she needed her conductor––

_How he made her sing!_

Then she was whimpering, her legs trembling violently where she stood, as the door shuddered in its frame under her weight. Her free hand gripped her breast, squeezing hard, too hard above the fabric––she opened her mouth in a silent scream––wet heat burst between her fingers––

Christine slid down the door to her knees as her skirts ballooned about her. A moment, two, with her open palms flat upon the floor as she caught her breath, and settled her pounding heart––

Then on an exhale she stood, arranged her skirts about her ankles, straightened her bodice, and smoothed the electric curls that stuck up about the back of her head.

She would have to stop this.

Because the music alone was not the spring of it, she knew, though the truth of _that_ was far more difficult to accept. And as much as the man created the music, the music _was_ the man. Every movement, every sound––the thrilling curl of those white fingers upon the ivory keys, the hypnotic back-and-forth––sawing, sawing––of his arm as he worked the bow––oh––the sweat that peppered his back even through his waistcoat––no, no, she mustn't think on it…

_That _was the thing that turned bliss to sin. _That_ was unforgivable––

But how often, just in front of him, had she clenched her thighs beneath her skirts and bit her lip to keep from crying out, as he stroked that dead black box to euphonious rapture…and knew nothing of the wet shame borne of it between her legs.

_Just in front of him!_

Oh, it was shameful, terrible––God in Heaven,_ if he knew_––

And so it had followed, those two weeks of absolute unknowable euphoria, in unwanted, secret touches to relieve herself. Each time claimed her with more urgency––sometimes, Erik played with such frenzy, she had mere moments before her ecstatic release and all she need do was stand there beside the instrument and let it control her––still other times the music built slow and torturous to its promised climax, and her wet flesh called for her, begging her for relief until she rushed to her bedroom to slam the door and pantingly appease it.

Now, at the end of nearly a fortnight she could hardly wait until he seated himself upon that intoxicating bench with that little flourish of his evening-tails––she nearly soaked her skirts in anticipation.

But Christine despised herself for it. Her damned body was learning––like a wanton whore she needed it––she was dripping and clutching the furniture even before the first note!

How was it that the music which poured from beneath those fingers blazed with such unspeakable fire? Were these not the damning flames of Hell?

Lucifer had been an Angel too, before he fell…

_And how he tempted her!_

"Erik––may I speak with you a moment?" she said later, once the music had gentled to barely more than a caress, and her throbbing cunt had sated its secret need behind her bedroom door. Christine watched unseen from over his shoulder, as the muscles of his back worked beneath his waistcoat in the same shuddering, pulsating rhythm of his too-long fingers. At some point he must have removed his coat; it lay half-forgotten with his jacket on the floor at his side, as if he'd simply tossed the garments from him as he played.

Was it Chopin he coaxed now from those fingers, so delicately, so tenderly? Christine had learned it was safer to hear music that he himself had not composed––his music, Erik's own music, burned.

Still, there were no guarantees. Even now, as she listened in the shadow of her own shameful release, her sex tingled with warning electricity.

"I wanted to apologize."

As soon as she'd spoken the music stopped; Erik hesitated upon the bench and turned, swinging his legs around to face her. He met her eye and dropped his gaze to his hands as the white fingers twisted about each other in his lap; the broad shoulders fell. Christine thought him like a little boy who knows he is to be scolded, and tilted her chin in the barest smile.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Christine," Erik answered softly, "I should not have behaved as I did when we came upon your young man. It was unfair of me to act so."

"He is not my young man!" she returned, blushing at her own girlishness. She lowered her eyes. "It's just that––well, you have said I must not distract myself with men. I have tried to spurn him as you say––Erik––but he is persistent."

"Ah, a very good reason to love him, then," he muttered.

"No––_well, yes_––" Christine sputtered; with her eyes downcast she took a deep breath. "Erik…I do admit that he is my friend, and it is difficult to refuse him when there is a great deal of tenderness in my heart for him. But I have not lied to you––I do not encourage him, I swear it. I was only surprised to see his anguish. It's just, he looked so wounded, I can't imagine why he would be so––not for me, surely––you mustn't think that––well. You saw him. I admit it pained me, but for my affection for my friend and nothing more, truly––"

He gave a long exhale. "The boy loves you very much, Christine. I am quite certain he would marry you if you wanted it of him."

Christine lowered and gathered his discarded clothes in her arms as Erik watched, his expression unreadable. Then she stood, crushed the fabrics to her stomach in an inelegant mass, and protested, as her voice took on the barest tremble, "I hardly think that is so, really now––in any case, I do not! Want it, that is. Raoul. I do not love him."

Erik made the same gentle humming sound between his lips as he'd used just before he'd examined her foot. Christine choked on a short exhale, and gave a little cough. Her gaze danced about the room, fluttering over everything but _him,_ until it came to rest at her feet.

"You need not lie to me, Christine. I have no right to demand your celibacy," ––she blushed hotly–– "now that you know the truth of our arrangement. There is no Angel, truly––or if there is, you are it. Not I––by God, it is not I. It is for selfish reasons I demand your singular attention. But––well, I will not say it again. I have promised not to and I must not––you know my feelings for you. They have not changed."

Christine said nothing, and stared at the pile of clothes in her arms. Oh––for an underground prison, it was certainly very hot––

"Whatever you might think of me, I know you value your tutelage," Erik continued. "I do not pretend you will ever love me, Christine,"––he caught her eye on a breath, regarded her silence and lowered his gaze again––"ah, but even so, I cannot share you. If you wish to continue your lessons you must give him up. Or you will give me up. I'm afraid I cannot teach you while you love him."

With a careful palm he took up her hand in both of his own, as she watched, wide-eyed. "I hope you will not––to waste such a beautiful instrument would be a greater shame than anything I can imagine. But I cannot decide that for you––the choice is yours alone."

"_Erik––_" she began, without knowing what she meant to say.

With a sigh he released her hand; Christine curled a soft fist in the space between them before returning it to the pile upon her waist. She tucked it inside the folds of crumpled wool as Erik watched.

"Please, Christine––do not tell me now. I am sure you have already made your choice, but humor me, sweet child. Tell me tomorrow."

Then he had dismissed her in his usual manner of turning about on the piano bench and beginning to play. His eyes were closed; again he was lost to the music. Nothing beside it could interest him now.

How could he ask her to devote herself to him when his own mistress was this music? And he brought her to such ecstasies––

Well, he brought _her_ too…

But that, she could not tell him.

No––there could be no choice but Raoul, if he should still want her, when she returned above._ If she returned above._ That terrible look on his face in the pale lamp-light before her carriage again vanished into the shadows of the path stabbed at her like a dull knife. What must he have thought, to find her there, at that hour––in a carriage with a man, no less––no, no, Raoul would never think so poorly of her!

It would have to be Raoul, or no man at all.

To consider anything else was absurd…regardless of what Erik had done for her. No matter what he promised her.

_No matter how sweet the fruit..._

She could not marry the Devil! _She was a Lutheran!_

Her bedroom was outfitted with an adjoining bath of silken marble, the like of which Christine had never seen before, much less had to herself. When she turned its little brass knobs, the cast-iron tub would fill with hot water––she could not fathom how it was done, but imagined it had something to do with the hundred boilers above their heads––and emptied again at only the pull of a rubber stopper. In just two weeks she had come to depend on the thing quite devotedly.

Tonight the bath had done wonders to calm her still-tremulous heart––down here, it never ceased its hammering––and to assuage this persistent, unforgiving guilt! Why should she feel so ashamed that Raoul had seen her in the Bois? She was doing nothing wrong by him––_oh, no, was she not? _For even now the music called to her from the outer room––and having already claimed her once tonight!

But it was not for only Raoul's sake she felt it. How strange, that she should feel such pity for her captor… her jailer! She had pretended not to see how it had injured Erik so visibly when she'd turned from him in the carriage…

Again tonight he had asked her to choose him. _To choose him…_

Erik––what did that mean?

Those eyes had met hers with more than simple fire in their black depths. That stare, like kindle on a blaze that already raged too hot––like the Devil himself he was tempting her!

She would resist! She would not be cast down!

It was likely Erik knew she was in the bath…he must know; she had kept the same routine these two weeks. Because what else should she have done with her time, locked up beneath the opera house! Still… it was its own sort of Paradise, this languid way of living…and it was easy, too easy, to forget she lived in Hell––

In Hell, with Erik.

_And with fires as comfortable as these––_

Christine wondered if he pictured her, here in the bath…if he thought of her now, naked and wet….helpless…just beyond a door––her eyelids fluttered as her warm fingers teased her sex beneath the rippling pressure of the hot water––

If he came through that door now, what would she do? Would she stand, rise from the tub like a painted Venus, and watch him stare as the water dripped from her skin?

What an absurd thing to think on! It was unlike her to have such ideas, and yet they invaded her rational thoughts with greater and greater frequency…

She did not know herself, down here.

And who was she, truly? To Erik, she was an instrument. _His instrument. _He had said as much himself.

His instrument, which he alone could play…

It was not Christine who sang for him. It was not her own voice she heard…it frightened her, in truth, to hear so much of _him _in her. And yet, it gave her power, it made her beautiful––without him, would she ever sing like that again?

But when he sang for her––_oh––perhaps tonight he would sing for her_––the traitorous way her heart fluttered at the thought disgusted her. It was indecent, obscene––_amatory_––it frightened her!

Still, with one hand Christine gripped the curled edges of the cast-iron tub as the other slid and pushed between her thighs. Because out there, he was still playing, and even the bathwater vibrated with the prurience of it––she bit her lip to silence her eager cry––

No––_surrender_––in here, alone, he would never hear her––

She threw her head back upon the smooth enamel and gave a little moan, another, stronger, louder––_oh, yes, let him hear her––_

_She did not know herself down here!_

Now, again sated and sticky-dry, she considered her reflection before the tall mirror in the secret privacy of her bedroom.

Hers was the only mirror in the whole of the house. It was not surprising, really, knowing what lay beneath Erik's mask––in truth she was grateful he wore it. Still that ruin of a face seemed almost natural in this underworld…_fitting, for the Serpent, to have no nose_…and was it not beautiful, really, in its way… she hardly ever even thought of it anymore...

Christine pressed her curls between the layers of the towel in her palms, then draped it across the black of her vanity chair.

As she opened her wardrobe she brushed her palm atop the many fabrics––sensuous silks, velvets and brocades, covered in the finest embroideries and trims she had ever seen––

These gowns and underthings she found waiting for her, in her prepared chamber––Erik had the entire wardrobe filled with them! Such perfect, beautiful, elegant things…what thought her captor must have put into that collection.

Most of the garments were scandalous at best. Such cuts, such fabrics! Some she dared not even try on!

And this dressing gown alone…a sin in sheer voile and ivory lace…

If she wore it, what would he say? If he opened the door to her bedroom, and it was all she had on? Would he come to her, and reach beneath the skirts––_oh_––would he tear it from her?

What could be the harm in putting it on, just this once?

As she stepped forward the silk slipped over her form, outlining and caressing the skin beneath. It clung to her every curve as if it had been made for her…

And so it had.

But the Devil is clever and Hell is made for temptation.

Beneath the fine cotton voile rose the firm, plump curve of her breasts with their pink nipples, every inch of her visible beneath the sheer fabric. So too the shadow of her ribs and the graceful angle of her collarbone shown as clear upon her ivory skin as if she wore nothing at all––and lower, between the obvious silhouette of her thighs, rose the dark triangle of her sex––

She let her fingers wander her curves atop the whispering fabric, turning and writhing before the mirror. This was a new Christine, a fae Christine, a doppelgänger borne of shadow––this Christine could only live here in the dark––

Surely her Master wants to see––

_A ridiculous thought!_––disgusting––absurd_––blasphemous!_

But Christine was thirsty, and the water pitcher was in the kitchen.

She could hear no sound from the Louis-Philippe room––the damning piano had ceased it's torment––likely, Erik had gone to bed––

Why shouldn't she wear the gown beyond the room? Surely Erik had expected her to, or why else would she have it? Perhaps he didn't realize the indecency of its cut. Even if she met him on her way, it was doubtful he would even note that she had the thing on…

She could go out there in nothing at all and he'd probably just keep playing!

That was a mistake.

"_Christine,_" he said.

She had made it to the kitchen without incident; she filled a glass from the pitcher, drank, and filled it again. In trembling excitement she had peeked about the entrance to the living-room, preparing to dart back to the safety of her bed when she heard him. She gasped and clutched the robe together at the throat, then pressed herself to the opposite wall, facing the kitchen, all the while cursing herself for behaving like a child.

_What had she been thinking?_

"Christine?" Erik repeated, and she could imagine the exact arching of his brow with which he spoke the words. She had not seen him––and yet he must have been there, in the flickering shadow of the hearth, the entire time.

"Christine, I know you are over there…" he added sardonically, "what on Earth are you doing?"

That voice of his was a sin. Why must it fill every empty corner as it did?

"I was only––I wanted a glass of water," she breathed, behind the wall.

"A crime, indeed," came his answering drawl.

"Erik, really, I'm sorry. I did not mean to disturb you––I'll leave you alone."

"No, it's all right, my dear. Would you like me to get one for you?" he asked.

"Oh––no––but thank you," she started.

The sonorous voice whispered at her ear despite the distance, creeping about the empty kitchen even as he spoke from the couch. Still, this trick disquieted her, perhaps more so than any of his others. Knowing the owner of the voice to be a man as he was––and not an Angel, certainly not an Angel––made the shapeless sound all the more unnerving. It made her feel foolish, for ever having believed otherwise.

And it did not help that it sounded as it did…

"Come here, Christine," said the voice, silkily. "Please."

Oh, it was madness to have left the room as she had––_what had she been thinking, really! _

"I was just going to bed, Erik. Do not let me bother you."

But the voice persisted. "_Come._"

Now she saw him. He sat with his back to her facing the fire, only a shadow upon the hearth. His arm extended easily atop the back of the couch; without turning to face her, he curled a summoning finger in her direction. A breath caught in her throat; again Christine cursed herself for her foolishness and tightened the sash of her robe.

On bare feet she moved towards the voice. She grasped the back of one of the tall leather wing chairs––the top of it nearly to her chin––to place it between her and the man gazing intently at her from the couch.

"Good evening," she said, cursing her dry throat, as Erik raised that damn eyebrow behind the mask.

"Why are you hiding behind that chair, Christine?" he asked. "You may as well sit in it."

"I prefer to stand," she said, too quickly.

"Yes," he said, and Christine thought he sounded almost sad to say it, "yes… I expect so."

Only the fire burning low in the hearth and the single flickering oil lamp at his side lit the living room. In the half-light, the mask joined with the leaden dark such that Erik appeared only partially there at all––like a vision from a long-forgotten dream, a nightmare, the kind so easily explained away in the honest light of day––

But nothing was real in Hell.

Christine shivered and stared at her hands.

"Are you well?" she asked, stupidly.

"I am well, Christine," Erik sighed, and gestured lightly at the open book in his hands; he dog-eared a page and placed it soundlessly on the table to his side. "I've just been reading, as you see." He inhaled deeply, as his eyes swept what of her he could see. "You are usually in for the night by this hour."

"I wanted a glass of water." Behind the leather shield of the armchair Christine spun the half-drunk glass about her fingertips.

"As you've said, my dear." A laugh like an exhale crept into his voice. Erik folded his long fingers in his lap atop his crossed leg; Christine marveled at the thinness of him, how the sharp angle of his knee pressed upon the fabric, how she could make out every bone in the white fingers of his hands as if he were hardly more than a skeleton––

"And did you find it?" he mused, a curious eye following her gaze as it took in the parts of him.

"Find what?" she echoed, surprised.

"The water," he said dryly. His narrow lips twisted; and surely Christine did not imagine it––the fire burned still in those black eyes…

"Oh––yes." Her eyes grew wide as red shame rushed to her cheeks, her throat, her ears––she was wearing nothing, almost nothing––_what in Heaven had she been thinking!_––

Why was the tortuous heat building between her thighs, why did her breath come so shallow through her parted lips? He was nowhere near the damned piano!

Erik regarded her carefully from his seat upon the couch.

"Come here," he repeated, his tone gentle. He indicated her chair with a tilt of his chin. "Sit with me, Christine."

A pause, heavy with possibilities.

"Right. Yes, all right," she breathed. She was weak.

_Devil take her._

Christine stepped from behind the chair and into the firelight. As she moved, she trailed an arm protectively over its high back. Erik choked on an inhale––he coughed––

"_ah,_" he muttered.

On his lap his long fingers made vices about each other, and he stared down at them as they coiled into a rigid fist.

Christine let her arm drape about the chair, feigning confidence in her state of undress. She knew this close the robe could conceal nothing––

She had known what she invited when she'd stepped into the Louis-Philippe room half undressed!

"Shall you read to me, then?" Christine offered, masking the tremor in her voice with some effort. Now Erik was watching her, devouring the sight of her, as the barest tip of his tongue darted out between his parted lips––_God, he wasn't blinking_––a shudder crept over her belly and down her chest, and sharpened her pink nipples to tender points––

"If you like," he breathed. Without taking his eyes from her, he clutched for the book at his side, blind fingers searching for a way to grasp it. He slipped it inelegantly from the table to his lap.

Now he looked bitterly upon the large volume, that damned hum singing again between his closed lips. "It's not a very good one," he muttered, and read the title aloud with some distaste. "_The Geographical Dictionary of the Kingdom of Poland_…I'm sorry."

"Oh," Christine said, standing just before him.

"It's new," he continued apologetically, as if either of them cared for the details of it. His thumb traced mindless circles upon its leather front.

"Oh," she repeated.

"I had not expected to see you again tonight," Erik said, and briefly chewed his lip. One hand covered the other in a convulsive gesture, smothering its hypnotic motion atop the book. He coughed. "If you like, you could choose another…"

Christine dismissed him with the barest shake of her head and took another step forward, such that the cotton of her gown brushed about his parted legs. As she had moved, the robe had shifted with her; now the barest tease of her naked thigh showed between the sheer curtains. Her half-drunk glass hung from a limp hand at her side; she did not know it gently bumped the inside of his knee.

Erik made a weak, strangled sound through clenched teeth, and shifted back upon the couch, pressing his spine into the velvet cushion. The easy posture he'd worn earlier had tightened and straightened into something that more resembled one of his frightful automata than a man; Christine could see every muscle working in his jaw below the mask, and the elastic tendons jumping upon his white throat, even as his narrow lips disappeared on his face for their tightness. His shoes slid upon the floorboards as his legs parted insensibly beneath the heavy volume, forgotten in his lap.

Christine followed his eye as he looked over her, through her––his devouring stare tracked the sweep of her narrow waist over the soft curve of her belly, to her hip and down her fleshy leg, and slowly up again. It seared her skin and reddened her flesh, as she parted her lips to release its urgent heat––

It should alarm her, the way those indecent eyes behind the mask traced every curve of her beneath the robe––how shamelessly he was staring! Her breasts shuddered beneath the sheer fabric as she inhaled deeply; her exhale came ragged and long. The Devil would take her now, her soul would be lost in the pit forever––_oh––she should run, shouldn't she_––and still she took another step, as his legs parted to receive her.

Now she trembled, and squared her jaw, and met his burning stare.

"Christine," he breathed, "_have you made your choice?_"

She did not step away. She did not shake her head or nod; she said nothing, and stood frozen between his parted knees. The book bit into the tender fronts of her legs as the soft surrounding wool of his trousers warmed her skin; like lowered wings, the gauzy cotton of the dressing-gown fanned down to the floor behind them.

Still Erik stared. His palms slid heavily over his thighs and made bloodless fists atop his pointed knees. He made no attempt to conceal his hunger as his gaze found the dark shadow between her legs; he stared shamelessly, and Christine shivered. Her nipples made little peaks in the sheer fabric as velvet heat crept, sticky between her thighs––_God have mercy upon her_––

_She should not have said it._ "Perhaps, Erik––you could sing for me?"

Now the black eyes found hers. A moment, as Erik took one, long, tortuously slow breath; he tilted his head, just barely, and when he spoke again the words came soft and measured––

"Ah…I know how much you like it when I sing, Christine," he said meaningfully, his expression unreadable.

What did that mean? She exhaled, and her hot breath came in a whine.

"Close your eyes," he said softly, "and I will sing for you."

They stared, unblinking, a second, an eternity––then with a ragged sigh, Christine shut her eyes.

And Erik began to sing.

Oh God, and did he sing––it started softly enough, barely a vibration upon his closed lips, that sinful hum, again––Christine gave a little moan as soon at it had begun––

Because the music summoned her, it knew her––and, oh, how she needed it––_yes_––she moved her hips toward it––

With one hand Erik must have grasped the sash of her robe; Christine could not see it but felt its silken caress as it rounded her waist and whispered to the floor at her feet, flooding her exposed skin with a sudden coolness. She felt her rising gooseflesh and gasped.

Now on a breath of rapturous music his lips brushed the bare flesh of her abdomen––or was it the music itself that caressed her––no, no, she should not open her eyes to see––one mustn't look back in Hell, or else be trapped forever––

His palms found her back and followed the curve of her, down her spine and over her rear, as she moved like water into his touch. His breath burned hot upon her skin where he pressed his lips against her, as he sang––now, somehow, his tongue followed the curve of her belly, and still there was music––blissful music, that caressed her and filled her and made her writhe beneath his hands with its rhythm, and made her clutch a palm to the hard bones of his shoulders, as her glass bobbed, splashing weakly, upon her thigh––

Blind, Christine threw her head back, licked her dry lip, and gave a quiet moan––

And Erik slid a cool finger along the mouth of her cunt.

Now she gasped, and bucked her naked hips toward him, as the glass fell from her nerveless fingers and shattered forgotten upon the floor––

"God, you're wet," Erik breathed, surprised, as something ragged flavored his words, "_fuck, Christine…" _

But she could not make out the sounds––there was only music, and still it filled her; she was immured in it and her body recognized its caress. It knew what it wanted––she was helpless against it––now she moaned and drew him closer, drew the source of it closer, by her fingers tangled in his hair––

She could feel his hesitation; the song was slowing, it was weakening––she writhed between his still-rigid thighs––"_don't stop,_" she whined––

And then he was upon her. One finger, two, working, working––"_fuck,_" Erik breathed, "_fuck––Christine––my God––_" He thrust his long fingers inside, buried them to the hilt such that the relentless bones of his knuckles teased her ass, her clit––she groaned––

Oh––the music was rough tonight, hard––it burned, it stung––almost, it was too much––

Then his lips traced her low belly and brushed the coarse hair that darkened her cunt, as his long fingers opened within her, spreading wide within her––_oh_––now he was stretching her, why was he stretching her?––as his other hand parted her pink lips with two fingers and he bent low to lick the exposed nub of her clit.

And then the song was on her clit; she forgot about his fingers even as they moved inside––he was sucking, tasting, pulling the pink nub between his not-lips, as her nails, like so many needles, clawed about his shoulders––

But it was enough. Her body understood; down here in Hell, it needed so little.

Christine cried out, and buckled over; she fell limply above him as her thighs trembled and her cunt shuddered and wept about his fingers––

A moment, two, in empty rapture as she caught her breath and settled her pounding heart––still Erik was working beneath her, between her thighs––he was doing something with his hands, yes, he was wiping his fingers on the inside of her thigh...and something, something at his groin, he was working the buttons––why was he working the buttons? but she was barely conscious of it, barely conscious of anything––

And then it was fading; the illusion shifting––his breath came jarring and overloud as he shifted her inelegantly atop him––_oh_––she could smell her own sweat––_her own sex_––

Christine opened her eyes. Somehow she'd climbed atop him; now she straddled him on the couch with her fingers clutched to the carved rosettes of the frame. Her dressing-gown hung from a shoulder, entirely open down the front. She could feel that book crushed against the inside of one leg as a clumsy hand gripped her rear and parted her thighs such that she leaned awkwardly into the cushion.

Something wet and sticking slid between her thighs and teased the hot mouth of her cunt, a finger––_no, no, not a finger!––_

Erik stared up at her as she bent over him.

With one hand he anchored her upon him, pressing her forward, as the other held his rigid cock––_his enormous cock!_–– in the bare space between them. He was panting; with stilted movements he eased her into place, shifting her about on her knees, settling her atop him––_oh_––she had sinned, she had tried to fool the Devil and this was her punishment––

He was too close––he was going to kiss her––_he mustn't kiss her!––_

She choked on an exhale and fumbled forward, digging her nails into the velvet upholstery. She climbed the couch to break free of him, then, with a convulsive movement, threw herself to the floor. She landed on her side to Erik's astonished stare––she made a grunting gasp, panting, as their eyes met––then, with both palms open beneath her, she scrambled up again.

Christine turned and ran.

She fled to the little bedroom. Jumping to his feet such that the forgotten book crashed to the floor before him, Erik followed.

She did not close the door or make any attempt to. In the center of the little bedroom Christine stood frozen, panting and staring, as the robe hung from her––waiting. Now with long, even strides through the doorway––with his rigid cock stuffed carelessly in his open trousers––Erik advanced upon her, capturing her wrist and wrenching her to him without a word.

_If she looked back now would she be turned to salt?_

With his fingers curled about her arm Erik crowded her forward as she stumbled toward the bed. He released her; she gave a whimper but said nothing as she tumbled upon the high mattress, bent across the feather blankets. Her confused feet slid frantically on the floor.

With his knee he forced her thighs apart to crush himself behind her. He was gathering the fabric of the damned robe with boorish palms upon her legs, her hips, her rear; he threw the gauzy mass over her head to reveal her bare flesh before him.

_No, no––_the too-familiar heat was stirring again between her legs––_no, not so soon, not again_––she writhed on the bed and stretched her arms out over the mattress; she clutched at the blankets and pulled them towards her––

The plump lips of her cunt peeked from between her thighs, the peachy mouth shimmering with its welcoming spit––behind her, Erik groaned, repeated––"_fuck––Christine––_"

With a halting palm, he skirted the curve of her exposed flesh––not touching––and yet she felt the electric heat of it. Then with one hand he caught the fleshy underside of her rear, pinching, squeezing, spreading the skin––he slid two fingers along the wet cleft of her sex; he pinched the eager nub of her clit, slick with the moisture of her, and slipped them both inside as Christine whined and writhed beneath him.

Oh, Heaven forgive her! _She had sold her soul!_

With his fingers inside her, Erik bent suddenly and thrust his lewd tongue into the soaked valley of her cunt, dragging it along the sensitive flesh; he groaned into the mouth of it and it was almost again music––

Christine writhed on the bed to crush her wet lips to his ruined ones––but the mask bit at the sensitive flesh and her eyes widened, as she grasped at the mattress to pull herself forward. Again Erik groaned, straightening, and seized her hips to drag her back toward him, as his fingers left wet-cold stains upon her naked skin––

He rammed his hips to hers, for a moment forcing his half-clothed erection in the cleft of her ass; then he gripped her rear with a wooden palm and stuffed his fingers again within her sex, to Christine's answering cry. He did not move as she might have expected; he spread his fingers wide, he curled and twisted them such that she felt that something was alive in her––and forced them deeper, deeper until she thought she might scream, until she thought he might tear her in two––

Again he was stretching her––opening her, preparing her––

_Oh, forgive her! She knew why he was stretching her!_

Christine's heart raced as she clutched at the bedspread beneath her. A violent shudder built in her that had nothing to do with music––it started along her spine and exploded in a trembling violence between her legs. She gave a quiet moan and writhed upon the bed into the urgent assault of his fingers––she heard Erik exhale roughly as her body pressed to his––

"_How do you get so wet, Christine––_" he breathed, behind her.

She was dizzy, she couldn't see––everything was white, as her vision distorted and sparkled with blinding light––_no, no, this wasn't what she wanted, this was a sin–_–

"_Gorgeous, unbelievable, tight, Christine––_" he growled, anchoring her to the mattress by a flat palm on her naked rear. He had his cock again in his fist, dragging it over the hot core of her, tipping it into the little squinting mouth as her grip tightened upon the blankets.

The sharp weight of his buckling knees impelled her forward as, with a feral grunt, Erik entered her––

And it burned! It stung! Oh, God, it tore her apart, and he was barely inside––she could feel the sticking heat of his palm kneading her flesh as he eased himself within, groaning, still groaning, above her.

Forgive her, forgive her, because she wanted more––she wanted all of it––

And yet it disgusted her, mortified her, the animal sounds from that glorious instrument, as he bent her over and rutted her––

Now Erik shuddered against her, panted behind her, as she felt his moist breath on her skin. She snatched and tore at the blankets beneath her, opening her mouth wide in ecstatic pain, as he slid the thing inside of her––it was monstrous, it was revolting––_oh_, _God_––how carnally, how obscenely he groaned––

"Easy my love, my love––Christine––easy––_fuck_––" he growled, unseen.

And that voice!––_no, no––_she didn't know that voice––

This was no music!

Christine screamed.

"Erik, please!_ I don't want to!_" her cry came urgent, breathless, as her thrashing knees struggled to climb the mattress despite his oppressive weight.

But as soon as she had said the words, the pressure behind her was gone, and with it the tearing pain––that numbing bliss in the core of her––as Erik recoiled from her to grasp blindly at the nearest bedpost, and stared at her, frozen, rigid, his eyes two moons behind the mask––

Christine scrambled up the mattress to fling the disordered blankets about herself, panting madly, "_I'm sorry! I don't want to! I cannot bear it!_"

His cock hung wet and eager from the rumpled fly of his half-opened trousers as his waistcoat bunched up his waist, as Erik gripped the bedpost with white fingers, and stared without blinking at Christine.

She had twisted about on the bed; now she faced him, her breath raging from her open mouth, and clung to the soft surface as if she could increase the distance between them by sinking into the mattress. With wide eyes, she begged, "please––_Erik_––don't make me do this!"

Still Erik stared, silently paralyzed, as Christine panted above the disordered blankets. His every muscle seemed in agony, pulsing and trembling just beneath the surface of his transparent flesh, as if he fought his own relentless grip on the bedpost.

"_Make you?––_" he managed, finally, and choked on a shuddering exhale.

Beneath the chaos of tangled fabrics, Christine's sex throbbed with impossible urgency.

"_What is this!_" Christine breathed, to herself, damning her own persistent sex, "Erik––what have you done to me?"

Now his face crumpled; his shoulders curled forward as he fumbled upon the bedpost. He raised a hand as if to ward her from him, his fingers grasping nervelessly about his palm. On the bed, Christine flinched at the gesture, and his hand dropped to clutch absently at his upper thigh.

"Forgive my presumption––" he tried haltingly, and quieted.

He stared at Christine, lost.

"I thought––_oh, God_, I thought_––Christine, please_––I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I did not realize––"

His voice came low and ragged, as if every word uttered caused him unbearable pain. His manner broken, he hung from the post with his waistcoat just slightly out of place, as his cock, still dripping from the tip, bobbed between his rigid thighs––the only evidence, besides the tangle of blankets in Christine's fingers, that anything had transpired at all.

"I never meant to hurt you," he continued, softly. "I will not. Please–_–_"

"_You!_" she growled, turning suddenly to him, her expression wild as he shrunk against the bedpost, "are you an Angel or a Demon? _What have you done to me?" _

"You must know I would never––truly, I would never––" then his eyes widened behind the mask as he groaned miserably, "_oh, God, Christine, have I?_"

He worked his mouth as if to continue, gave a strangled exhale, and closed it again, as Christine glared at him from her place atop the bed. Her chest heaved; she chewed her lip, panting. Her hand slid mindlessly over her mouth, a finger playing at her lip.

She tore her hand from her face to seethe at the fingers as if they had wronged her._ "What have you done to me?" _she repeated.

Erik stared, terrified. "Please… I misunderstood," he begged, frozen. "I won't do it again…I misunderstood, Christine."

"How dare you," she spat. "_How dare you!_"

"Please, Christine––I won't––I promise, I won't––"

She shut her eyes to him, turning her head; she could not look at him for shame. Her body still burned with something unspeakable––she imagined him upon her, entering her as she bent before him––by the Devil, she wanted it! She could not reason with it! She panted between her open lips, gave a breathless moan––she stared at his purple cock, still rigid between his half-open trousers, bobbing there obscenely as he hung from the bedpost. A sick chill slid down her spine to burst maddeningly between her legs.

"Oh, am I in Hell?" she groaned, "_what have you done to me?_"

"_In Hell?_" he echoed.

His tortured gaze bore into hers, silently pleading with her––Christine was certain he could read her appalling thoughts upon her face. She eyed the rigid angle of his tense jaw, the tendons that shown upon the pale flesh of his throat. _Oh, to stroke that throat––to kiss it––_

_To kiss that giant cock!_

"_No!_" she shouted suddenly, and Erik stiffened.

"_Christine, please––_"

But beneath the blankets, Christine's mindless hand found the inside of her thigh, summoned by the ravenous call of her still-aching cunt. As Erik watched without understanding, she slid a finger inside herself, between the too-slick folds of her sex. Senselessly she stroked tight circles about the swollen nub of her clit––her lids fluttered over her eyes; she exhaled raggedly––

Erik's brow furrowed. "_Christine?_"

With eyes half closed she breathed his name in answer, as her thighs parted unseen. She drew her knees apart and pressed a mindless palm into the mattress, to lean upon as she entered herself with her fingers, again and again as Erik stared––

Still he gripped the bedpost, and watched the muscles working in her bare shoulder as Christine's arm beat a frantic rhythm beneath the tangle of fabric. Her head tilted back as she stared at him, hazy-eyed, and met his gaze down the line of her nose, and chewed her lip to smother a breathless moan––

"Christine," he breathed, "––_are you?–_–"

Again she said his name, as her tongue darted across her open mouth to wet the parched skin. From the bedpost Erik gave a shuddering exhale, as his hand crept absently over his thigh to circle his rigid cock––

Now he took it up in a white fist, to stroke the thing, again, again, in her shared rhythm––watching her, as she whined, writhed––her arms frantic beneath the blankets––he clutched the bedpost such that the bed shook violently with his every thrust––

"_Christine,_" he breathed, growling into the assault of his own mulish fist––

She threw back her head, then, and gave a moaning cry; his name shivered from her open mouth––her feet, one still in its slipper, slid from beneath the blankets to thrash upon the mattress, as Christine chewed her lip, and rocked her hips steadily into her fingers, faster, harder, more, more––even Erik could feel the pounding echo of it––

"_Erik,"_ she breathed, again, and as she said it, he stumbled forward to lean bodily against the bedpost. Clutching his cock, shuddering, he groaned as his hot seed stained the mattress and spilled, sticky, between his fingers.

For a moment, in confused disbelief, Erik held his spent cock, his mess still dripping from his fingers, and stared, panting, at Christine––who did much the same, frozen atop the far end of the mattress.

Around them, the disordered room pulsed with warning electricity.

"_I am not myself_!" Christine shrieked, suddenly, still breathless as she tore her fingers from beneath the blankets, "what trickery is this, Erik?"

"_Christine?_" he panted, still leaning against the bedpost.

Her frantic stare swept the fallen cushions, the tangle of blankets––Erik's hand, still clutching his flaccid cock––the wet stain upon the mattress–

"What have you done to me?" she demanded, adding darkly, "_have you drugged me?_"

"_What is this?_" he breathed, for lack of something more suitable, as the manic terror began to show again in his expression. "_Christine, what is this?_"

He released his cock to hang limp and wet between his thighs, staining the wool of his trousers. With stilted movements he began to cover himself, gazing over at Christine as she clutched the blankets about her throat. When his hand met his cock again she balked and whimpered––he froze, held his palms open before him, and left his trousers unfastened.

"Christine––" he tried.

"_You have drugged me!_" she repeated, in a whispering hiss.

Now a look of unspeakable sadness shadowed his features, as his hands worked the air before him. "…never… Christine… no…" Erik breathed, exhausted, choking out the words. "_Is this what you think of me?"_

She fumed in silence atop the bed.

"Please," he added, "don't leave, Christine––I will not do it again, I swear it––"

"_Get out of here,_" Christine growled from the bed.

"_I don't understand!_" he said desperately, his eyes searching her face, for something, anything––"but please, please––Christine––don't go––"

He reached out a trembling hand; Christine glowered at him.

"_Leave me!_" she screamed suddenly, "you demon, you beast_––get away from me!_"

For another moment, another eternity, Erik stayed, frozen at the foot of the bed, as Christine glared from atop the mattress. Again his mouth opened as if to speak––for several moments more he chewed the words––then he passed a hand over his face and gave a ragged exhale between his long fingers, and walked to the door, as Christine's shuddering breath echoed behind him.

Silently, he slipped the lock such that it could only be opened from the inside, as Christine watched, understanding.

With his hand about the handle, he paused in the frame to glance back at Christine, still clutching the bedspread to her throat. He sighed and lowered his gaze to the floor, and tried to ignore the scattered pillows about his feet.

"It's late, Christine," he said, "I'll bring you above in the morning." A pause. "The masquerade is tomorrow."

Sadly, he added, "I suppose I'll hear your answer after that."

And he shut the door.

* * *

_**A/N Again:** Is it out of character for Erik to say "fuck, you're wet" ? Hell yes it is. But I've done it anyway._


End file.
